


Wishes on Golden Toothpicks

by viciouslitany



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco, The Academy Is...
Genre: Alternate Universe, Band Fic, Drug Use, M/M, Romantic Friendship, Rough Sex, Ryden
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-20
Updated: 2014-10-15
Packaged: 2018-01-20 02:38:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1493578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viciouslitany/pseuds/viciouslitany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brendon Urie has moved on from his days of serving smoothies to working in a club in Chicago. Ryan Ross has not moved on from his days of being a pretentious twat that just can't quite make it. </p><p>---<br/>They’re strange and the lyrics are hard to follow and the front man has designs drawn on his face in eyeliner. He doesn’t think he could have any of the confidence that this guy seems to have, even though his eyes look emotionless from back here. </p><p>They’re called Panic! At the Disco. The lead introduces himself as Ryan. He’s beautiful, and everything he wears is tight and showy. He belongs in a circus from the twenties or something, and Brendon can’t help but allow his lips to quirk into a smile.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Brendon loves his job.

He doesn’t need to get up early in the morning to come in. He doesn’t work every day. He gets paid well, but he doesn’t do it for the money.

He does it for the music.

He works in a club in Chicago. They’re small, but that hasn’t stopped them yet. A lot of bands come through here, even though the place is only five years old. It’s about the quality, they say, which sometimes makes their size their greatest asset.

On the inside it has enough space for a stage, a bar and some seating. The atmosphere is intimate even when the floor is packed, and the sound and lighting booth is right to the side of the bar, pressed against the back wall. This is where Brendon feels like he lives most of his life.

There are a lot of benefits to working in Chicago. The biggest one is probably that it _isn’t_ Vegas. There is the lake and it actually snows in Winter, so much that sometimes you can’t even see your hands in front of you. He likes it, from the snow blindness right to the chapped lips.

And, okay, well.

Brendon loves his job _most_ of the time.

He runs the sound board and all the sound around the club. They get jazz bands in here sometimes, but most of the time they end up with rock bands and alt bands and people just trying new sounds.

Not everyone likes those sounds, but Brendan digs a lot of them. He holds his breath and he crosses his fingers for them, because the world needs a little more synth and maybe not quite as many suspended chords.

Tonight isn’t a night like that. Tonight is a battle of the bands and the lighting guy was supposed to be here at four and it’s already five. Inexperienced kids with tightly strung guitars are traipsing across the stage and getting in the way of everyone else. They chatter and they do preshow rituals, a lot of which involve chanting. _People still chant?_ A few of them stare wantonly at a bar that hasn’t opened yet, a bar that many of them can't even visit. Only a few of the bands keep to themselves and arrive on time.

Those are Brendon’s favorites.

The first time he and the lighting guy really bonded was over one of these battles of the bands. It happened a few months after the opening. Back then, it hadn’t drawn nearly as much interest as it does now. Three bands crowded their stage, all horrible, and the two techs only needed to lock eyes once to dissolve into silent laughter. They’ve both been here since the place opened, and maybe that’s one of the reasons that no one cares when William is so late.

William is mature and serious and a smooth talker that gets away with so much that it’s not fucking fair. He’s the same guy that told a girl once that he’d make her a plaster cast of his dick so she could make her own sex toy. When William does strange things, people laugh and tell the story for years because they don't believe he’ll do anything else like it again. Brendon knows better, but he doesn’t bother to correct them.

William is his best friend, after all.

Brendon stares down at his soundboard whenever someone approaches the booth. People that just want to chat are not people he is interested in talking to, not right before one of the longest nights of his life. He doesn't know what it is about him that catches their interest anyway: hips that are too wide, plain eyes, hair that's too long and constantly in his way. Luckily, people don’t bother talking to him when he looks busy.

No one else knows how to do what the two of them do, but a ton of people could tend bar or wait tables or bounce or sell tickets. He’s seen all those people come and go over the last five years.

But he and Bill stay the same.

When musical opportunities hadn’t fallen into his lap, he’d ended up in college. Those had been four grueling years, but they had been four grueling years _not_ in Vegas. He’d gotten hired for an internship here at the start of his junior year, paid. Working while going to school for two more years had made everything more tolerable.

William had been way more on time back then.

It’s not Brendon’s job to change the gels in the lights to make the stage look just the right kind of washed out, but he does it anyway because he is all set up until mics need to be changed out on stage. He balances precariously at the top of the ladder, praying to a god he doesn’t believe in that no one knocks him over while they’re hauling speakers around. A six feet tall ladder doesn't look six feet tall from the top of it.

A few of the performers watch him from back stage. He hopes they can’t tell how annoyingly difficult this is for him, if only because he would rather be watched and admired than watched and mocked. His jaw tightens and under his breath, he cusses out William. fucking. Beckett.

“You called me?”

Brendon looks down. That string bean of a man has his too long, messy hair tied back at the base of his neck. Light brown eyes look up at him, and they’re smiling. They’re always smiling. It’s worse when William comes in and smells like someone else’s soap, because Brendon is constantly reminded that he only ever smells like his own.

“How was Travis?” He climbs down the ladder and looks everywhere but at William, pushing a hand back through his hair. One gel is in. Four more to go, and he shows them to William as evidence. “You climb the ladder,” he adds, moving it where they need it before William even gets a chance to protest.

The tall man climbs the ladder like it is normal for giraffes like him to do daily tasks. He isn’t shaky and he doesn’t hold onto the top with one hand. It takes him less than a minute to do things Brendon takes five minutes to do.

This is why his job is with sound, not lights.

“How’d you know it was Trav?”

Brendon doesn’t give it away, not the obvious hint. He doesn’t know why William always comes back from Travis’s with his hair in a ponytail, but he does. William always asks and Brendon always knows, and he still hasn't figured it out. There’s a new mark on his neck, and for the hundred millionth time Brendon realizes he doesn’t envy William in _every_ way.

There’s no pleasure in being stuck between someone you love and someone else you love, when neither of them are keen on sharing. Brendon doesn’t know who he’d be more reluctant to fight: Gabe or Travie. The two never complain, though. They take their turn. Sometimes, Brendon tries not to notice the bags under Bill's eyes.

They change all the gels and William deals with the fact that he isn’t going to get an answer.

Sometimes when you talk to Brendon, you don’t get anything.

Bren tries to keep to himself and remember that if you can’t say something nice, it is better to say nothing at all. William is more familiar with that than most people.

At seven o’ clock, the doors open. The house lights are still on and the disco ball is still hidden away. The black lights are off and the strobes remain currently untouched. There is a bunch of local people just filing in, coming for a good time and drinks and to support their friends or the local scene.

There’s almost never people that come to nights like these to discover new talent, but that doesn’t stop Brendon from hoping that someone might walk through the door and find something great.

Their boss could do it, but he’s a busy guy. Brendon hasn’t seen Pete Wentz in here running the place in a month. For the most part, they manage to keep themselves standing. 

At seven thirty, the bar opens and it is suddenly hopping. People with wristbands get drinks and bring them back to the few tables that there are. Brendon and William laugh from their place in the booth and they begin to relax, not worrying about their cues just yet, or the fact that some inexperienced asshole is likely going to fuck up something they’ll have to run up and fix in a fast intermission.

At eight o’ clock, the emcee hits the stage and the ball starts rolling. The disco ball comes down. If he were to insult that disco ball, he is pretty sure that Pete Wentz would fire him on the spot. 

William smiles from ear to ear the moment Travie starts speaking. “Yo, welcome to the Battle of the Baaaaands!” Travis grins, a lazy grin that matches his comfortable clothing. His gaze scans the crowd.

William cues up the lighting and Brendon’s fingers twitch over the mic slider, fighting not to make the man louder than the crowd that cheers for him. No, Brendon doesn’t envy him much. Maybe it isn’t so bad being lonely.

“I’m gonna need your help up here tonight, I’m gonna need you to _scream_ real fucking loud for them when they’re done, you hear me?”

Travis plays the crowd like a fine tuned instrument, and they love it.

“This is their life. Their future, yo. Take this shit seriously!” And he winks.

He plays the cues he’s got on his board like he would the keys of his piano. His smooth fingers glide right over them.

There are nine bands playing tonight. By the time the third band finishes, Brendon thinks he should have brought some pain killers. The eclectic combination of an electric standing bass with too much distortion and a vocalist who sings in a whisper is too much for him.

William sits between sets with his eyes glued to the stage, but Brendon paces. His nervous energy won’t let him sit still. He twitches a lot, fingers crooked and tapping against his thighs or the countertop. He can feel William's eyes on him. They both know these nights can drag, but for some reason this one seems longer than most.

He can’t help it. Something is making him anxious, and it isn’t the fact that they haven’t gotten any kind of real break.

Band eight stills his hands on his thighs. Band eight has him catch every cue without catching his breath.

They’re strange and the lyrics are hard to follow and the front man has designs drawn on his face in eyeliner. Brendon doesn’t think he could have any of the confidence that this guy seems to have, even though his eyes look emotionless from back here.

They’re called Panic! at the Disco. The lead introduces himself as Ryan after their first song. He’s beautiful, and everything he wears is tight and showy. He belongs in a circus from the twenties or something, and Brendon can’t help but allow his lips to quirk into a smile.

He sings something about hospitals and IVs and somehow, it’s still interesting and relatable. The chorus is catchy and people don’t know the words, but they’ve had enough to drink that they try to sing it anyway. The statue of a man on stage smiles slightly, but continues to sing.

Nothing stops people from cheering when Travie asks how they did.

It doesn’t stop Brendon and William from cheering either, though they’re cheering for different reasons.

The night ends with a solo artist who makes at least one person cry. He wins. Brendon wonders if he wins because of his musical talent, or because he is missing his left forearm and still manages to play the guitar and sing like a fallen angel.

Brendon loses band eight in the crowd. He actively tries not to think about the boy with the design on his face. He actively tries not to wonder where he went, and he definitely doesn't scan what he can see of the crowd for him. He wants to know what the boy looks like up close, but that is Brendon's problem. He likes to know things. 

People stay and drink and party and Brendon DJs until last call. He’s a different person when he’s spinning tracks for people than when he's on his board for shows. Tonight is an electronica kind of night, the sort of thing that you can dance and forget to. When people approach, he doesn't look down to ignore them. 

He leans over for requests and he smiles and he nods and he lets people talk. It's easier that way. He pretends to hear them over the music. 

Sometimes he feels like energy, pure and raw; like it’s all he can do to keep himself restricted to head bobbing and jerky movements. It manifests in everything he does. William watches him and laughs, and then he takes over the booth so Brendon can get them drinks before the bar closes.

He goes, feeling like part of the crowd. The bar is firm, dark and carved as he leans over it to be heard when he speaks. Behind the counter, a girl with fire for hair smiles. “The usual?” She teases him and he can’t help but smile at her. He feels like a cup of coffee would probably be better for him than something alcoholic. 

But then again, he doubted the caffeine would really do him any good. 

“Yeah, Hayley.”  

She gives him two shots of Jäger and doesn’t bother to put it on anyone’s tab. The least the boys deserve after a night like this is a free shot, and she knows that Pete won’t mind. She’s new, but she catches on quick.

“It was a good show!” She calls after him as he heads back. He tosses her a smile over his shoulder. Somehow, he manages to get back to the booth without spilling a drop from either shot. Practice.

Only when he gets back to the booth, he thinks that he should have asked for another.

William has his back to the board. Brendon can mostly see limbs around the too fucking tall body with a hell of a head of hair that’s keeping him pinned there. They’re laughing over the music, and jealousy knots his stomach. He comes to their side anyway, and sets William’s shot down by the sound board. “What’s up, Trav?” He asks, though he can clearly see exactly what is up.

He gets a smile. The two of them make him feel like he’s some kind of midget. “Yo, Bren, how’re you?”

“Good man, good.” He grins in return and William takes his shot. The ponytail that had held his hair up for work is now around his wrist, and right after he takes his shot the hands that had put in gels earlier are resting on Travis’s shoulders.

Brendon’s jealous and he doesn’t know why. His stomach keeps twisting and the shot he takes burns on the way down. His eyes sting but he laughs it off and shoves the two of them away the moment his glass takes its spot on the counter next to William's. He can handle this, he insists, and tells William to get his things cleaned up so he can get out of here early. He doesn’t point out that William _got_ here late, so in all fairness, he should be staying late.

When the bar shuts down, Hayley cleans up with the other bartenders. She waves goodnight and she looks exhausted. “You should come hang out with us one time, Brendon,” she tells him, the same thing she tells him whenever a few of the bartenders leave together to have a drink in someone’s apartment and just hang out watching a movie or something.

He knows he should, so he gives her a smile. He still hasn’t figured out to say no.

The club closes, and he helps lock it up.

During the week, they usually close at two. It’s a Friday night and instead, they close at four in the morning. By the time Brendon turns away from the last locked door, it’s five. He’s been in that building for more than twelve hours. Anyone who tells him his job is the best and so much fun within the next day and a half is going to get punched.

He won’t really do it, but it makes him feel better to think that he will.

The sun is waiting to rise as he starts walking to the parking lot. He’s the last car left in it. By the mouth of the alley between buildings, there’s a slim form. It's leaned up against the club and bringing a cigarette to its mouth. In the freezing morning weather, the smoke seems heavy as it languidly floats towards the clouds.

Brendon is too fucking tired to notice much of anything. He would keep walking, if the make up etched on those cheeks doesn't strike a familiar chord. Up close, the eyes look just as dead as he had thought they were before. His curiosity is sated, but now he has new questions. 

Maybe it’s the exhaustion kicking in. As he walks past, he can’t help but say something.

“You should have won.” He doesn’t stop, even though he is pretty sure his mother would be disappointed in him for not even being able to look someone in the eye when he gives them a compliment.

She would probably also be disappointed in the fact that he has long since forgotten the guy's name. 

The male’s voice is smooth and it resembles his singing vocals. “I know.” He makes a soft noise - satisfied with himself, Brendon thinks.

He doesn’t stop to wonder what the guy is still doing here at five in the morning, acting natural. “If you don’t get killed out here alone, you should come back and play again.”

Brendon's sneakers dig into the gravel of the parking lot as he walks to his car. He starts it, looking at the dash and blinking a dozen times to make sure everything stays in focus. He knows that he should be a decent human being.

He can only let his mother down so many times in one night.

On his way out of the lot, he pulls up to a stop beside the painted man and rolls down the window.

“Are you getting a ride? Like, are you okay?” He feels foolish asking.

The other leans in his car to check the time, and then nods. “Shane’s coming.” Brendon nods in return, even though he has no fucking clue who Shane is. “It’s not going to be long.”

And when the kid looks at Brendon with confusion, neither of them quite understand why. This only makes it worse.

There’s never anyone in his car like this, and the last person he had this close to his face is William. There’s beautiful eyes and make up and a boy that is too pretty for his own good just inches away. Just a few breaths.

That loneliness thing aches again.

He leans back out of the car and Brendon says goodbye before driving home. He doesn’t look in his rearview mirror.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It takes him getting out of bed and into the kitchen to remember the state William was in when he got there. They don’t need to talk about that. Everything smells like bacon and breakfast, and nothing at all like existential crisis. Brendon considers it a safe zone.
> 
> He walks in to the kitchen and it’s as though his best friend knows not to comment on the fact that New York sleeps longer than Brendon does. There are bags under the shorter man’s eyes. His arms swing by his sides, and his energy appears not to care whether he has a good night or not.

It’s not a surprise to Brendon that William comes into his apartment at four AM a few days later.

When Bill walks in, he is not the put together person people usually expect. His steps are slow and practiced, like walking takes some kind of effort he no longer has in his bones.

Brendon had been doing nothing out of the ordinary. Late, he fell asleep on the couch. The television was off but the radio in the kitchen was on. On the floor between the couch and the coffee table, he had dropped a book he was reading while dozing. For all intents and purposes, he was having a nice night.

William's clothing is disheveled, as though he has forgotten how to put each piece on just right. When he looks at Brendon, his smile is tired. It doesn’t take long to realize he's drunk. 

What he has a casual interest in is where the other man came from, so he asks.

This is the _wrong_ question to ask, apparently. It is usually the wrong one when William is like this, but Brendon can’t learn his lesson.

“Shhhh-ut up,” William replies, dropping his body next to Brendon's on the ancient couch. He does it like the old thing is capable of taking so many pounds dropped on it. The sound technician can’t decide whether to wince or roll his eyes, so he doesn't do anything. “I went to a party. I’m _allowed_ to go to parties.”

Brendon is not in the position to be anyone’s dad.

William comes to work late. William drinks. William doesn’t know what bed he’s going to be sleeping in at night. He thinks he can handle it, and Brendon is not going to be the one to tell him that he can’t. Eventually, nights like this might.

Which is why he is the one that William comes to when he is experiencing a state of emotional discharge, because there is no such thing as an 'I told you so' in Brendon's apartment.

For the next hour and a half, Brendon listens as his friend talks about the party and how full it was. He talks about how Gabe and Travis and Alex were there, and how even Pete showed up. “You should have been there,” he says, accusing in a slur that could be tired, drunk, or both. “You never come out.”

The brunet begins to walk the living room. He is exhausted and he wants to sleep more than he can express to someone like William, someone who is vehemently refusing his body’s demand to give in to rest. Heavy lidded eyes blink more and more frequently as Brendon lets his friend go on.

Then he starts talking about who was with who, and who he talked to, and why he feels so upset about everything. Because Brendon is a good friend, he listens.

Of course he doesn’t come out. They’re at work late when they work and on the days they’re not working, Brendon doesn’t need to drink with company to have a good time. He sleeps more than four hours. He drinks what he wants to drink. He entertains the idea of learning how to smoke cigars and cutting his hair to work with bowler hats rather than letting it be long enough to tie itself into knots when he nervously works his hands through it repeatedly.

And sometimes he writes. He writes music down in a spiral notebook he bought for a dollar on sale at the start of the Chicago public school year. The cardboard cover is red with a black outline, and three quarters of the pages are entirely full of music notes and lyrics that he’s never sure he entirely understands. 

They don’t make sense in the moment, but almost nothing ever really does.

That is what he thinks about as he walks the room in slow steps and tries to keep himself awake for someone that is talking just so they don’t have to hear the sound of their own thoughts: This doesn’t make sense now, but maybe it will someday.

William is waist deep in soft explanations of social dynamics just before he suddenly slides in to being all loose limbs on Brendon’s couch, asleep. There is an afghan blanket on the back of the couch. All Brendon has to do is pull it down and drape it over the contorted form of his best friend.

Once this is done, he heads to bed.

The trouble with bed is that now, he can’t sleep.

Brendon closes his eyes and he thinks about the parties he has not attended - parties he has not even _wanted_ to attend. He does this as he sits in the middle of the ocean of blankets and listens to the wind outside, whipping away at his apartment building.

Mostly, the only time he notices the wind is at times like this. They are those times when his mind needs something to latch onto so he can have an excuse for still being awake.

He folds his legs into a pretzel and rests his palms on his knees. He takes deep breaths that drown in the roar of the wind and tries not to think about the full lives of other people or why he would rather just stay home.

All he can feel is a tightness in his stomach. The only thing that makes it slip away is the slow string of music notes that begin to stream over the backs of his eyelids. It's a slow release of tension, but it is one nonetheless.

Despite himself, he lets the notes take the reigns. They sound like piano keys and bass beats and the strumming of guitar strings that have been tuned perfectly, and they flow. 

It calms him down.

Then, other calming thoughts follow. He’s working toward something and he’s helping other people. He’s making a living doing something he likes, which is not something his parents ever thought he'd be able to do. His brothers and sisters lead lives that make him think that it isn’t terrible to be an exception to the rule. They barely speak to him as they're busy living their own lives, but when they do he feels good about his choices.

He just still has bigger dreams.

Those aren’t the kinds of things you can talk about when you’re sober and maybe a little ashamed that you haven't actually achieved your dreams. You especially cannot talk about it to your best friend that has his own problems. There are people in Brendon’s life that aren’t William, but he doesn’t trust them the same.

And it’s hard for Brendon to trust people that don’t already trust him. Maybe if Pete was around more, he would feel more comfortable seeking him out for one on one soul searching. Brendon isn’t usually that lucky… So he meditates in the middle of his bed while the sun works on coming over the horizon, because that’s the only thing that calms him down enough to sleep.

When he wakes up, he has no idea what time it is.

He’s discombobulated and there’s something tickling his nostrils, and it smells like food. Even though he just woke up, he knows without a doubt that William is cooking in his apartment.

It takes him getting out of bed and into the kitchen to remember the state William was in when he got there. They don’t need to talk about that. Everything smells like bacon and breakfast, and nothing at all like existential crisis. Brendon considers it a safe zone.

It’s as though his best friend knows not to comment on the fact that New York sleeps longer than Brendon does. There are bags under the shorter man’s eyes for evidence. His arms swing by his sides just for something to do, and his energy appears not to care whether he had a good night or not.

“How was the couch?” He asks, approaching the oven and leaning over it to check out what’s cooking. There’s bacon done in the back, eggs on now, and french toast cooling rapidly on the plate next to the bacon. The clock on the back of the stove says it’s eight thirty-four.

“When are you going to start letting me sleep in your bed?” William asks, which means that it was fine, the way it always is.

“When you can walk over there on your own.” It’s too early in the morning for anyone to willingly smirk, but Brendon does it anyway.

“That’s not fair.” He wouldn’t say that William is whining exactly, but it sounds a lot like he might be. Something about that is oddly satisfying. While his friend cooks, Brendon cleans around him. There is trash to be thrown away that William has not gotten to, and dishes to be washed. They work well as a team, jamming in personal silence while the radio croons jazz at them.

This is one thing they both can agree on. Their silence doesn’t last long, because it never does when a familiar song comes over the radio waves as though intended for just their ears.

William hums the melodies. Brendon sings and he belts with a deep voice that by all rights, he shouldn’t have. His friend is his echo and his harmony, voice higher and somehow just as interesting in its breathy quality.

By the time they go through a few songs, the sink is clear and there is food on the table. The plates are piled higher than usual with foods that William doesn’t always take the time to make. For fuck’s sake, there’s french toast. That takes more effort than Brendon can even really comprehend.

So, he doesn’t really try to.

His kitchen table is sort of on the smaller side of average. Four could sit at it comfortably were one side of it not pressed to the wall, but six people could probably squeeze in. It’s a rare occasion that it ever needs to seat more than two.

The wood is old and scratched with years of moving utensils and cutting things on it when they really should have been using a cutting board. It’s a relic now. He had gotten it from Goodwill just because it looked like it had a lot of character. He didn’t intend to ever give it up.

The table is pushed against the kitchen wall. Over the table is a set of two paintings on either side of a wide window, cheap prints of Van Gogh paintings picked up at that very same Goodwill. For a while, Goodwill had been like a second home to him, all right?

Brendon sits across from the window with William to his right, and they eat while the radio continues it’s commercial broken serenade.

When someone knocks on the door, it makes sense to Brendon. There is extra food. William has sung more than he has spoken all morning, and there has been no attempt at an apology for drunkenly infiltrating his home. This means one thing, when he really thinks about it.

William is not done fucking up yet. 

“Who-“

Brendon usually thinks he is quick, but this puts him to shame. Before he can finish his question to the now empty room, his best friend is pulling the door open to his apartment and ushering in whoever was waiting on the other side.

Within a minute, sleep rumpled Brendon with the messy hair and the tired eyes with stuff still in the corners is looking up at an all too put together Gabriel Saporta. He doesn’t even want to know why this is happening. There is no reason for anything anymore.

All he really wants to do is eat his breakfast and not think about whatever tangled mess William is throwing himself into now. 

“Good morning,” Gabe says, and Brendon is reminded about the way that everything Gabe says sounds like there is a smirk tacked onto the end of it. It is smooth and unsettling to someone like Brendon: someone who has been fed religion and obedience for most of their life. To most people, he’s noticed, it is the most soothing of tones.

He feels like he can hear a wink in the words, even though he is looking right at the man.

“Morning,” Brendon replies, and he is ninety-nine point nine percent sure that his own voice sounds like sandpaper that has been rubbed raw against coal, even though it had been fine when they were singing.

William gestures to the leftover seat to Brendon’s left and then takes the one to Brendon’s life. The last place he wants to be, he thinks, is in the middle of any of this. The radio is still on, but suddenly it isn’t loud enough. Under the table, he bounces his leg and tries to pay attention to the stack of french toast and pile of bacon.

“I don’t mean to sound like I’m bragging,” Gabe starts in that silky smooth voice, “But after not knowing where I was when I woke up this morning, to getting eggs and bacon in this fly apartment, I have to say that I think I’m coming out on top.”

William smiles and Brendon wonders how fair it is that he can smile so easily over something so stupid.

Gabe turns his attention on Brendon directly, brown eyes warm. “So, we’ve got a thing going on tonight, classy as fuck. William and I think that you should come. It’s going to be at my apartment. Dress… nice.”

Most of what he can think about is a night spent glued against a wall with a beer in hand.

“Sounds good," he lies, smiling before spearing a piece of french toast. 

And that is how, for the second time, Brendon Urie ends up in a room across from Ryan Ross.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! finals have finally stopped eating me. I will be updating this fic on sundays, primarily, but they'll be a bit scattered with more to make up for what I've missed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When he looks up and across the room, he notices someone. The boy watches him in a way that makes him feel like he has been for a while. 
> 
> And Brendon remembers that his name is Ryan, even though he had completely forgotten it during their first conversation. 
> 
> At least his mind is coming through somehow tonight.

Brendon doesn’t know what Gabe expects him to show up in. At various times, he has seen Gabriel Saporta in name brand suits and call it dressed up. He’s also seen him in fitted jeans, a tank top, and a backwards hat and heard the very same. 

Basically, all this means for Brendon is a long time spent in front of an open closet and dresser drawers, wondering what the hell he’s supposed to do. He can’t ask William, because William helped clean up after breakfast and then left with Gabe. 

“Gotta prepare,” Gabe explained with a smooth shrug on his way out the door. What should Brendon have said? ‘But yeah, before you go, I need help dressing myself.’ 

No. 

His thoughts are jumbled fragments. This is one of the reasons he doesn’t go out. Everything had been easier when he was younger and he just didn’t care what people thought of him. 

Even if he doesn’t see these people all the time anymore, they are still his friends. They are around. It isn’t really going to matter to them what Brendon looks like after a long night at work, is it? 

It only takes him another half an hour to get the outfit picked and thrown into a bag. He puts the bag in his car before he goes to work, and then promptly focuses on other things. His shower is longer than usual, and he pays special attention to his hair. 

It ends up looking like he put no effort into it at all, which is better than what it looked like when he woke up this morning. 

Brendon observes himself in the steam covered glass. His reflection is a blur on the clouded surface, his lips a plump pink marker for him to spot precisely where he is. 

He doesn’t want to go to work tonight. 

But in the end, he goes. He shows up early and waves to the backline crew, guys already setting equipment up. He helps them just to make sure he’s got something to do, fixing placement of equipment when he knows it’ll interfere with other things.

He checks the mics and the batteries of everything, and he goes to check his board and make a track list for the afternoon. It’s weirdly quiet in the club without music on, and he doesn’t like this. 

It’s when he’s making the playlist that William shows up. 

Brendon doesn’t notice him at first, more lost in his own world than he would care to admit. The music has to be carefully crafted, or else it might throw off the mood of everyone’s night. Tonight isn’t a gigantic crowd for heavy punk artists. 

It’s going to have a more laid back feel, alternative rock with a tempo that doesn’t really lend itself to circle pits. Not that he hasn’t seen people try. People always try. ‘Kind of like Interpol,’ one of the backline guys explains, like Brendon doesn’t know exactly who they are when he hears their name. 

“Hey, daddio,” William greets, and Brendon stops the hip swaying he barely notices to start with. William has a crooked smile on that says at least one of them notices. 

“Hey.” 

And that’s about all they get to say to each other. It turns out that there’s a lot to do today, and that they’re actually barely prepared when sound check comes around. The band’s openers put Brendon through his own personal hell, changing mic volumes left and right and fucking with their distortion so much that he almost can’t follow it. They have an attitude, like they’re Gods for being on stage while he works the booth.

And William laughs, relentlessly. 

The main act is easier to please. They’re more respectful, but they still don’t give Brendon a chance to breathe. There are a lot of cues to remember, and he has to keep reminding himself that he loves what he does. 

Or else he might just tear his own hair out.

By the end of the night, he is exhausted. He almost forgets that he is to drag his body somewhere he doesn’t want to go – until William reminds him as they’re heading out to their cars under the light of the moon. 

“Are you going to get changed at home?” William asks. He changed in the bathroom, and he looks… good. He’s got on fitted pants and nice shoes and a button down shirt with roughly too many buttons undone. It’s probably a sign that his pants aren’t jeans. 

“Fuck.” 

Brendon grabs the bag from his car and heads back inside, where the floors are still sticky from the spilled beer of the mellow and careless. The restroom is mostly deserted but for the occasional cleaner passing by. 

In front of the mirror, he washes his face of the post-work grime. Some damp hair sticks to his forehead, but is feels nice and wakes him up more than the show. 

His work clothes are stripped away in the too public space, but he really just can’t make himself care near two o’ clock in the morning. Pale skin and full hips are hidden away in a pair of plain, slim fit, black slacks. He didn’t think to bring shoes, so he wears his sneakers and figures it’s just par for the course. 

On top, he has a plain white button down. Unlike William, he wears all the buttons done. A blue sports coat completes it. He thought about bringing a tie, but he’s kind of glad he didn’t. 

When he goes outside again, this time he’s alone. William’s car is gone, so he throws his work clothes in his own back seat and gets in. 

For a long moment, he debates just taking himself home and dealing with his friend later. Then his phone vibrates against his hip, so he goes digging through his pocket for it. 

It’s not William. It’s Gabe.  _Bill just got here. Where are you?_

“Somewhere over the moon, Gabe,” he says, outloud and to no one. He smiles, though, and looks up to find the shining orb in the sky. There’s almost no clouds, so the moon accompanies on his ride over to the high rise apartment with the unanswered text hanging out in his passenger seat. 

On the top floor of the garage attached to the building he finds a lonely spot in the corner. Within two minutes, he’s knocking on the door to Gabe’s penthouse. Someone lets him in, so he just smiles and says thanks. 

The apartment seems smaller than he remembers, but maybe that’s because the last time he was here it was maybe six people. 

This time, there has to be at least fifty. 

There are refreshment tables set up in the living area. They’re covered in crystal, holding several foods that Brendon doesn’t even recognize. Waiters in black tuxes pour wine in glasses that aren’t even half empty, and Brendon feels so out of place. 

These are rich people, rock stars, and their friends playing dress up. They’re his friends too – he spots Alex, Pete, and even Andy. Even so… Everyone looks different under crystalline chandeliers. 

At first, he plasters himself to a wall with a glass of wine. He hasn’t seen William and he has not seen Gabe, but everyone else keeps smiling at him and trying to talk. 

“Check this shit out, can you believe Gabe fucking Saporta did this?” Pete asks, and Brendon smiles. 

“It’s like premature Halloween.”

He’s just not interested, even though he knows it makes him an asshole. He takes his phone out of his pocket and checks the time twice in three minutes. 

The music floating through the apartment is what it would sound like if elevator music mated with techno music, he determines. It would be better if he had someone to tell that to, because he just looks stupid when he makes that wide smile stretch over his own lips. 

But maybe he’s too lost in his own world, because when he looks up and across the room, he notices someone. The boy watches him in a way that makes him feel like he has been for a while. 

And Brendon remembers that his name is Ryan, even though he had completely forgotten it during their first conversation. 

At least his mind is coming through somehow tonight. 

A look of recognition crosses his face, and Ryan looks somewhat satisfied. He has on shined brown shoes, pin striped pants, and a shirt fitted to his chest with strangely flowing sleeves. In his hair is a thin headband, which Brendon can see more clearly as Ryan approaches him. 

Just like he can see the eyeliner a little more clearly. Everything about Ryan seems artfully done, with a purpose that Brendon can’t quite put his finger on. When there is only a few feet remaining between the two of them, Brendon finishes his first glass of wine and wonders if this is only going to be small talk. 

A waiter passes by and refills his glass. 

“Who do you know here?” Ryan asks. He's beginning to seem like the kind of person that doesn’t waste a lot of time with fake fronts, and Brendon can respect that. 

“Everyone.” This time, Brendon doesn’t look like a complete fool when that smile stretches over his wide mouth. Ryan smiles too, but it’s different. “Gabe and Becks, wherever they are.” 

As of this point, he’s accepted that they’re probably in some back room, hidden from view for a reason. “But they’ll be around soon, so...” He adds, shifting his weight from foot to foot, and suddenly finds that he’d rather not be stuck to this wall like fly paper waiting for innocent flies. The music could be worse. Once you get used to it, it’s kind of got it’s own groove. 

Ryan’s eyes seem a little guarded and maybe a little cold, but he looks amused. Brendon forgets the fact that he didn’t want to be here while wondering what it would take to get Ryan to look like he’s having a really good time. 

But Ryan doesn’t say anything, just nods in acknowledgment. This is the first time they’ve stood next to each other, which is why Brendon only notices now that Ryan is taller than he is. 

He’s starting to think everyone is. 

“Who do you know?” 

“William.” Ryan pauses and looks out into the crowd, like he’s expecting William to appear out of nowhere just because he mentioned his name. “He invited me. But I know a few people here.” 

Which is weird, because William is Brendon’s best friend and he is one thousand percent sure that he would know anyone that knew William. Wouldn’t he? Brendon doesn’t say anything, but for a minute he feels kind of uncomfortable. 

Maybe Hayley and William are right. He needs more of a life. 

“I don’t even get what’s happening right now,” Brendon admits, watching people with tattoo sleeves and tons of piercings wear suit jackets and drink wine. 

“It’s a game,” Ryan explains, a smirk curling the corner of his mouth. “It’s so they can say that they did it. It doesn’t really matter. One day…” But he trails off, and Brendon has no idea where he was going to go with that sentence. His curiosity is going to get the best of him. 

“One day?” 

“Who knows. We might be doing the same thing.” And suddenly, Ryan is back to looking amused and a little cold. “It’s warm in here.” The subject changes, and Brendon isn’t sure how to deal with that right away. 

So he drinks his wine like the rest of them. 

And somehow they end up outside, because everyone else’s body heat really is making it a little warm. The balcony overlooks Lake Michigan and they’re not the only people out there, but they _are_ the only two people out there with a blunt being passed between them. 

And Brendon doesn’t know how he got this comfortable this fast. He doesn’t make it a habit of sharing drugs with boys in clothes that really just look _too good_ on them.

Luckily, when they’re tucked away to the side like this, it’s going mostly unnoticed. Their smoke goes up and dissipates into the sky. Brendon takes to watching it sometimes, because it is a nicer thing to focus on than how close they are, or that if Ryan has herpes or some other mouth disease, he probably has it now too.

Brendon hasn’t smoked weed in a long time, and Ryan can tell. The shorter man laughs at almost everything that’s said, even if it’s only marginally funny. It’s a shame that Brendon has forgotten his goal, because Ryan is definitely laughing now. And he definitely looks like he’s having a good time. 

“Do you ever just feel…” And Ryan trails off, which is something Brendon is starting to learn that he just does, sometimes. They talk about a lot of things and Brendon can feel himself getting cold, which means that Ryan must be freezing. Neither of them make any moves to go back inside. “Do you ever feel that you weren’t born just to be a skeleton?” 

Maybe it shouldn’t make so much sense to Brendon, but he has been flying high since his second hit and they are well past that now. “All the time,” he replies, and Ryan looks at him in a way that says he’s just trying to make sure he isn’t being lied to. “All the time,” Brendon repeats, leaning on the railing and looking out over the inky black lake. 

They’re quiet. Inside, everyone else is getting louder. 

All Brendon knows is that he kind of likes this. Back in there, the crowd seems to be reverting from dress up to their natural ways – the music keeps slipping into punk and alternative, with bass beats Brendon recognizes without even needing to open the balcony door.

When he has the joint, Ryan wraps his arms around himself and tuck his hands underneath his armpits. 

The next inhale is probably his deepest. The smoke enters his lungs and heads in low, taking over until it clouds all the way up into his mind. His eyes tear a little on his slow exhale, and he feels good. So good. 

They finish it together in comfortable silence. By the end, they’re both shivering. Just to keep warm, they’re close together. _Too close,_ Sober Brendon might chastise himself, but he could save that for later. 

“Are you kidding me? This is where you guys have been for like, what, two hours?” William’s voice and accusatory tone make Brendon laugh and turn carefully towards his best friend. 

William looks like he’s been drinking, but it’s not like when he shows up depressed in Brendon’s apartment. He looks good, too. Everything is good right now. 

“Two hours?” Ryan asks, and honestly… it doesn’t feel like it has been two hours. But over the edge of Lake Michigan, the very beginning of a sunrise is showing itself in a thin line of lighter blue. 

William herds them inside, and Brendon smirks when he notices that William’s clothes are far more wrinkled than they were when they had walked out of work earlier. The party has spread out enough and there is space on the couch. By an expensive speaker system, someone is singing too loud to Journey. 

When Brendon sits, he realizes how tired his legs are from standing outside after a night of working on his feet. Ryan crashes next to him. 

Their knees brush. 

Brendon looks up, and he catches Ryan’s eyes - and his smile. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Turn here," he says, and Brendon turns. "Stay straight," he instructs, and a long fingered hand delicately raises the volume of the radio as the sun raises itself over the horizon. 
> 
> By the time they stop, morning rush hour traffic is starting and Brendon wants out of the car anyway. They stop. Ryan pays a meter with change jingling in his pocket. 
> 
> Bren stretches his legs. 
> 
> His high has dropped off from those giggles and smiles to a major buzz in his veins, but he's no longer as confident as he was when he led them to his car and on the road. He doesn't need to be. 
> 
> Ryan walks by his side, but he's leading the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> posted for that poor thing, watabi12
> 
> it feels quite strange to post this after months and months of, you know, not

It has been a really long day. 

Even high and chilled to the bone, he feels the weight of it pushing on his ribs, cracking his spine now that he isn't standing up any longer. 

But the boy he barely knows is giving him a hidden smile, and they're sharing a moment. They're sharing a moment and it's warming Brendon from the outside in. 

This isn't his place. 

It's Gabe's, and he's feeling that, like all the walls are flying higher than his head and telling him to get out now before he can't get out at all. 

"This place is dead." He hears his own voice and it sounds alive, like the Brendon he remembers from a thousand years ago. The Brendon who was more in touch with his friends. His life. Detachment winds through him as he smiles at Ryan, bigger, brighter. "Are you ready to go home yet?" 

"No," Ryan replies, quiet enough that Bren has to lean in and listen to him repeat himself. "No." They laugh, sharing embarrassed smiles. 

And then the two of them walk hip to hip to Brendon's car. Ryan climbs in his passenger's seat like he owns the car and they don't talk about where they're going, because maybe they just don't know. Bren gets them out of the lot. He turns them right and he turns up the radio, but Ryan takes the lead from there and it feels natural. 

"Turn here," he says, and Brendon turns. "Stay straight," he instructs, and a long fingered hand delicately raises the volume of the radio as the sun raises itself over the horizon. 

By the time they stop, morning rush hour traffic is starting and Brendon wants out of the car anyway. They stop. Ryan pays a meter with change jingling in his pocket. 

Bren stretches his legs. 

His high has dropped off from those giggles and smiles to a major buzz in his veins, but he's no longer as confident as he was when he led them to his car and on the road. He doesn't need to be. 

Ryan walks by his side, but he's leading the way.

This is comfortable. 

They look like they could be headed to work, just like anyone else. Men in suits smile and nod at them when they aren't too busy yelling into their bluetooths, acting like they are brothers of the same club. The two of them laugh together, privately, because this is their club and no one else is allowed.

When Ryan pushes the door open to a coffee shop, Brendon follows. A bell chimes above their heads, welcoming them into the shop. Friendly baristas chatter behind the counter and ask what they can do for them. Ryan gets his coffee black. Brendon gets his as sweet as it comes, lighter than his skin. 

The vocalist smirks at him, bags forming the stretching shadows under his eyes. They look at home on Ryan's face, like not sleeping is as natural to him as breathing. "You should try it black," he says, voice sore with disuse and old smoke. 

"My life is bitter enough without it." 

There's a pastry case on display, freshly Windex-ed glass the window to sweets that tempt. Ryan orders three with confidence, leaving Brendon to order a coffee roll and step towards the register. It's an older machine, one where they still need to swipe the card through that weird black pinpad and print thin receipts. 

"That comes to four dollars for coffee, and twelve for the pastries," says the man behind the counter. "So sixteen." 

"Oh, we're-" Brendon starts, but when he looks around for Ryan, the twig thin man is already seated and eating his food. "-together, I guess." 

"Seems like you just got thrown under the bus," the man laughs, brushing a wild blond fringe back behind his ear. A line is forming behind Bren, or else he might actually consider striking up a conversation. He doesn't even know who he is right now. 

He needs to go to bed.

"Pretty much," he replied, taking a twenty from his wallet and offering it out. While he counts the change out in dollar bills, Brendon steps away. "Keep it. You were more patient than I would have been." Probably. Maybe. 

Ryan is looking expectantly at the sound tech. 

He doesn't say thank you. Instead, he simple gestures to the empty seat across from him, a two person table right by the window. 

"You're welcome," Brendon says, smiling through the sarcasm, body dropping into the seat. Ryan shrugs it off. He doesn't eat delicately, not like one might expect for the string bean he really is. 

Silence, this silence especially, is awkward for Bren. They're a blackhole of noise. He can hear it in the universe of the coffee shop around them, yet there is nothing said from seat one to seat two, and all Brendon can think to himself is 'at least I tried'. 

He tears pieces off his coffee roll, taking small pleasure in the way it unwinds itself before his very eyes. When he looks up, he catches the other male watching him, catches Ryan's slow and cryptic grin growing over mysterious lips that maybe, just maybe, he would mind brushing over his own. 

"What are you," Ryan starts to ask, "five?" 

And the moment is gone, the feeling like a flash of lightning outside of a dusty window. 

"Seven." The retort comes as soon as his mouth isn't full of pastry. Ry doesn't lose his smile. He likes a good fight and Brendon can see it in his eyes, and he wonders how often that gets him in trouble. It's hard to tell if he needs to win, but he clearly lives to try. 

Ryan would fit in perfectly with Gabe. Pete. Probably even William, when William is in one of his bitchier moods. He wants to know how he missed this, Ryan fitting in while he saw to it that he got himself phased out. 

"Five and a half, maybe."

Ryan exists to be a challenge. 

"Same age as you?" 

But Brendon can play. 

Immense satisfaction is written all over Ryan's face as he pierces his final pastry with his teeth. Brendon sips his coffee and looks outside, watching a girl on a skateboard weave her way in and out of the business men with six dollar coffee cups in hand. 

And they must be watching the same thing, because Ryan speaks up. "I want that to be a metaphor for my life." 

Brendon knows that the look on his face he gives in response is not polite. An incredulous eyebrow raises towards his hairline, something like a confused smile adding to the effect of 'so you're insane, then'. But he doesn't say anything. 

"What?!" 

Brendon's smile feels natural and right on pursed lips, a mouth that refuses to open to meet the challenge. Ryan reluctantly lets it go, settling back in his uneven and slightly rickety café chair.

Silence doesn't prevail for long.

He's beginning to feel that the too thin vocalist is going to be a consistent form of amusement, because when Ryan is on a roll, he just can't seem to stop himself.  

"Have you ever wanted something so badly, you couldn't breathe?" 

And this, this actually sounds like a real question. It comes out of nowhere, like Brendon is starting to think Ryan's strange and existentialist questions always do. This kind of thing is what you ask when you are desperate to find somebody that can identify with you, even though you won't tell them why. 

Busy eyes find Brendon's and wait for an answer, unblinking as porcelain dolls'. 

He nods. Slowly. Because yes, he has badly wanted things, but mostly he desperately doesn't want someone to feel alone when he is sitting right across from them on a bright Chicago morning. 

"I want to be someone," Ryan breathes. His words are smoke, exhaled to the ceiling in relief. 

For Brendon's entire life, he has wanted to be someone. It's hard to get those kinds of thoughts into words, but Ryan seems like the kind of person that can do it. The kind of person that can do it well. 

"Yeah." 

Brendon isn't. After a long night, he doesn't know how to be eloquent anymore. 

Ryan regards him. Guarded eyes open more, then narrow. He suggests they leave, but he won't let Brendon bring him home. "Really, it's fine," he murmurs, but it doesn't feel fine. 

"Let me-" 

But Ryan waves him off. 

He's a stick figure slipping between shadows of business men and narrow lapels. Within a minute or two of Brendon holding his cold coffee and staring after him, Ryan is gone. He goes home. 

In the empty apartment, exhausted, he’s struck by how quiet it is and how alone he feels. It’s not any different than usual, but the most telling thing about it is that it comes back.

Meaning for a while, he hadn’t felt it at all.


End file.
